


is this what you intended

by notadroid



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Cousin Incest, Enemies to ??? to Friends to Lovers, Erik is a Mess, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn, T'Challa is just tryna keep everything afloat, post canon fixed the end youre welcome everyone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 11:44:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13763418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notadroid/pseuds/notadroid
Summary: T’Challa wants to be free of his guilt, and more than that, he wants something good to come out of this. Some kind of redemption to spring forth from the suffering that’s occurred.Erik just wants an opportunity to bring the good King down.





	is this what you intended

**Author's Note:**

> Okay first of all yeah, cousin-cest warning. And it's played deadass straight. So if your morals are clutching their pearls right now then this ain't the big mac for your burger meal, feel me? cool. Let's move on.
> 
> Takes place post canon and errs decidedly hard on the ERIK DOESN'T DIE side of things. May be subjected to serious editing depending on how the rest of the story goes. We'll see. New tags will forecast most changes.
> 
> All comments will be screened for the time being. Ya know, for obvious reasons. constructive comments are valid and important. And like, fangirly ones too, so go off honey.

 

Erik is heavy, even for him to carry, but the burden of guilt, of his father’s sins passed down to him, weighs much greater on his shoulders. If he lets Erik die, then the chance of redemption will die with him, and theirs will become a sordid tale of familial deceit and tragedy with no happy ending. His first defining act as King: a murder of his kin by his own hands. His hand was forced, but it does not matter. This will haunt him as his uncle’s death no doubt haunted his father.

But he is not his father. And Erik is not dead, yet.

With his arm around him, T’Challa can feel Erik struggling not to collapse. More and more, his weight leans on T’Challa as they stumble into the elevator. T’Challa knows how deeply the spear is embedded in his chest, knows it’s only a matter of time before the internal bleeding causes him to faint. Already, Erik is breathing deeply and shallowly in turn, loud, thready rasps like he needs air but can’t remember what to do with it.

“That sunset better be a damn good one.” Erik is sweating and dying, but he still has it in him to leer monstrously.

“It is,” T’Challa says, and goes quiet. The elevator buttons are near invisible panels on glass and he finds there is nowhere he feels truly comfortable looking. The glass reflects his failure through his own two eyes, but Erik is the most damning reflection of all. Coming to a decision, he presses a button and exhales. “I promise you, N’Jadaka. You will see a hundred such sunsets.”

A flash of confusion crosses Erik’s face at the precise moment he loses consciousness. His weight falls heavily onto T’Challa’s injured side, and he clumsily catches him, only just avoiding tipping over the both of them in the process. Ignoring his own complaining injuries, he swings an arm under Erik’s knees as the doors slide open, and limps out, cradling his misbegotten cousin against his chest.

“Shuri, I need you to come to the lab.”

Erik’s last wish was to die.

T’Challa hopes he will be forgiven for his selfishness.

 

///\\\\\

 

“You’re kidding me,” Shuri says, the minute she catches sight of T’Challa holding Erik bridal style. “This is a joke, right?”

“No, this is exactly what it looks like,” replies T'Challa through gritted teeth. “I am injured, and he is very heavy. Can I put him down on the cot?”

Shuri stares for a second longer. “Fine,” she sighs and waves a hand, walking ahead of him. 

T’Challa smiles gratefully. “You’re a lifesaver, Shuri.”

Shuri snorts, sliding him a wry, significant look as she begins setting up the appropriate programs. “You definitely owe me for this.”

“I do,” T’Challa agrees, lowering Erik carefully onto the bed. Erik’s face is appropriately youthful when he is not snarling with rage. He looks…not peaceful exactly, more asleep or dead even, but T’Challa would rather not think about it that way. They got here on time. Erik  _will_  live.

Tearing his eyes away from his cousin, T’Challa is distracted, momentarily, by the broken glass and debris around them. He walks over to a window that has been completely smashed through and looks outside into the blue and black neon-infused world below. Then the train passes. Like a bad memory, T’Challa looks away. “What happened here?”

“Everett Ross,” Shuri replies crisply, as though that explained everything. “But don’t worry, I can still fix him.” She pauses. “Well, I can heal his wounds. The crazy, homicidal stuff not so much.”

There isn’t much judgment in her voice, but there is enough. T’Challa takes a deep breath.

“I know what you are going to say,” he starts, but Shuri cuts off him.

“No, you don’t.” She smiles at him, and walks over, bumping his shoulder lightly. “Relax. If you’re not careful, you’ll go grey before your time…not that you aren’t already.”

T’Challa smiles weakly, absently brushing his fingers through his hair. “Being King is not as easy as Baba made it look.”

Stray air currents brush against his face like a balm, but they simply served as a reminder that all of this happened in the first place. The window  _shouldn’t_  be broken. His sister  _shouldn’t_  be healing a man who tried to kill her. And Erik…well there are too many shouldn’ts associated with him.

“It will get better,” Shuri says with conviction. “I know it will.”

“I am not so sure.” He allows his eyes to drift back to where Erik lay on the cot, where he’d been almost subconsciously looking through his peripheral vision. “I have put myself in a very…stressful position.”

Shuri hums thoughtfully and nods. “Yeah, you have.” She side-eyes him curiously. “I was wondering about that, actually. Even you are not usually this dumb.”

T’Challa senses that he is supposed to laugh but cannot help but frown uncertainly. “You think I should have left him?” 

It isn't a fair question to ask his little sister, and ordinarily he wouldn't burden her with his moral dilemmas like this, but T'Challa's spirit is low and tired. He needs someone to tell him he is doing the right thing. Surely saving a man's life could not be a mistake?

“He did take over the Kingdom and try to kill me, and Nakia, and Okoye, and—” her face darkens, "he killed Zuri."

“Yes.” T’Challa pinches the ridge of his nose. “I know.”

She raises her eyebrows. “He tried to kill you  _at least_  twice.”

“That is also true.” T’Challa squeezes his eyes shut, brows creased heavily in the middle. “But I understand what the thirst for revenge can do to a person. It is truly a destructive state of being.”

“Is that why you are helping him?”

Helping him. It's distressing, how easily the weakness within T'Challa stops him from correcting her, that  _no_ , Erik had actually asked to die, and he is going against his wishes perhaps for the worse for everyone. And to top it all off, he doesn’t even know if he  _can_  help him _._  

So instead T'Challa shakes his head.

“He is family,” he tries weakly, but quickly shuts down that avenue of argument at the look on his sister’s face. His shoulders deflate, and he exhales deeply, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I couldn’t let him die, Shuri. Not after I found out who he was. Baba had abandoned him, you know –left him for dead in America after killing our Uncle. He was just a child.”

Shuri goes silent for a moment, and then shakes her head. “No, there must be some kind of misunderstanding. Baba would never...he must have an good explanation for this."

“No, Shuri." T'Challa sighs. "There is no misunderstanding --"

"Then an explanation --"

"None that paint our father in a good light. He hid it from us because he was ashamed--” T’Challa does his best to keep the anger out of his voice but isn’t certain he succeeds, “and with good reason. A deed like that rots a person from the inside-out, I couldn’t let myself make the same mistake.”

"So you saved him," Shuri deflates but seems to understand. 

T'Challa nods slowly. "Yes." He feels bone tired, exhausted from the simple act of trying to explain himself.

"Well, I suppose that is as good as any reason to save a complete psychopath."

"Shuri, Erik is not..." Well actually T'Challa doesn't know what Erik is or isn't --that's part of the problem. "Do not use words like that lightly." He chastens instead, but glances back at Erik, chewing his lip thoughtfully. "Although I'll admit it doesn't feel right just leaving him with you like this. He still has the heart shaped herb's abilities running through his veins."

“Don’t worry about it.” Shuri rolls her eyes lightly, and gestures to Erik’s comatose body. “He is hardly in any position to do anything right now. And besides, this is my lab, remember? I can take care of myself better here than anywhere else.”

“Alright. But call at the first sign of trouble.” T’Challa hugs her, resting his chin lightly on her head. He smiles softly. “Thank you, little sister.”

“You’re welcome. Now get out of here, unless you want to help with the clean up. I’ll let you know when he wakes.”

 

///\\\\\

He’s back.

The tiny kitchen and small, cluttered living room bathed in cheap, peeling, tangerine orange wallpaper. The guns. The tribal paintings on the wall. The tapestry. And the hidden space behind it, filled with his father’s Wakandan memorabilia –Pandora’s fucking box that he just had to open. But then again, why wouldn’t he? He had the key.

Erik walks through, not really touching anything, hands stuffed in his jean pockets. Jeans and a t-shirt. At least he’d be comfortable. He takes a quick glance outside and –yeah. A blazing Wakandan sunrise over Oakland of all places. Heaven’s light in his own home sweet hell. So, this really is it then. This is eternity. The afterlife. He wonders if his childhood bedroom still looks the same, he didn’t have time to check last time. He also wonders if he can go a damn minute without seeing his father’s dead body bleeding through the floorboards. He closes his eyes, but no, that’s just as bad. Worse maybe.

Erik thinks about ripping the place apart –see if it’ll put itself back together --, he thinks about sticking a gun in his mouth on the off chance that he can die here, or maybe he’ll try to leave the apartment all together. Maybe that will work. But in the end, he just lies down on the couch and flips on the tv. Funny thing about the channels, they were all just him killing people.

His Father seats himself on the armrest. “N’Jadaka.”

“Hey dad, was wondering when you’d show up.” He gestures to the television wryly. “Game’s on.”

But N’Jobu simply looks at him with a deeply crestfallen expression. Eyes flitting between his own like he's hoping to fish out Erik's long lost soul with nothing but disappointment. Erik contemplates telling him not to waste his time.

“What are you doing, my son? You must stop punishing yourself.”

“Who’s punishin’?” Erik grins. “Nah pops, you got it all wrong, I’m proud of what I did. Only thing I regret is not finishing the job.”

“You are lying,” N’Jobu says, gravely. “But I think you believe that you are not.”

Erik’s smirk drops, and he sits up, hunched forward. His chest feels tight. It must be anger. That’s what he feels. Nice and familiar clinging fury in his heart, and he can work with that. He always has.

“You know I don’t get you. I thought I was doing what you wanted. You always told me to fight for our people!”  

“But I never wanted you to lose your soul in the process. Nothing is worth allowing hatred to consume you the way it has.”

“Yeah well, guess that’s where you and I disagree. Hatred gave me drive, made me stronger.”

“Hatred poisoned your cause. You turned against your own people, your own family –”

“They had it comin’.”

“Enough.” N’Jobu moves to sit down next to him. He cups Erik’s face in his hands, who freezes in surprise. “You were always strong and ambitious, and while I agree that the world contains evils worthy of distain, your family is not one of them.”

“How can you say that when your own brother murdered you?”

“I have made peace with the past. I only want the same for you.”

Erik glares at him, but his eyes are wet. Shiny. He turns his face away. “Don’t know if I can do that.”

N’Jobu smiles encouragingly. “You can do anything you set your mind to.”

“Don’t know if I want to though.” Erik gently pushes his father’s hands away. “Sorry.”

He gets up and walks around the couch, if only so that he doesn’t have to meet his father’s eyes. N’Jobu sighs, bowing his head. “Please at least consider it. We don’t have much time.”

Erik narrows his eyes. “What do you mean?”

On a whim, Erik walks over to the window and pulls the blinds back. On the horizon, the vibrant colours of the Wakandan sunrise are bleeding into a fast encroaching blackness. Erik rubs his temples, squinting as he begins to hear sounds that don’t make sense. A motorized humming noise, and louder than that, the thumping rhythm of drums. Music.

Behind him, N’Jobu stands, shaking his head.

 “You are not dead, N’Jadaka.”

“What?” He begins to feel dizzy, faint. “Shit.”

He isn’t aware of collapsing until he sees his father crouching over him, one cool hand brushing his dreadlocks away from his eyes.

“Goodbye, my son.”

 

///\\\\\

 

Life clenches her fist around Erik’s neck and hauls him back into the world like the callous bitch she is.

He jolts into awareness, breathless and wild-eyed until he locks onto the princess’s back and it all suddenly, quickly makes sense. Erik sits up and bares his teeth like a predator primed for the attack. “You.”

Shuri jumps, whirling around to face him with wide, surprised eyes. She presses a bead on her bracelet just as Erik pushes off the bed and advances towards her, triggering an virtually invisible geometric forcefield of minuscule blue dots to surround him. It encompasses the platform the cot is on and throws him back violently the moment he touches it.

It hurts as his back collides against the edge of the cot. His neck stings from the impact, but the rest of him --apparently healed, strumming with unspent energy, and  _alive_  --appreciates the pain. Pain has always grounded him. His own. Other people’s. It’s a welcoming change from the uncomfortable numbness in his limbs.

Erik tongues the front of his bottom teeth and smirks as he massages the back of his neck. “Gotta hand it to you princess, that was pretty slick.”

He rolls his shoulders, fighting the pins and needles in his legs as he stands up smoothly. Shuri glares at him and calls T’Challa’s communicator without so much as looking away. Erik can see the shaking nerves behind her bravery and knows that she is afraid to take her eyes off of him. Evidently afraid of what he could do. Good. She should be scared.

But just as Erik is deliberating how to get past the forcefield, T’Challa answers on the first ring, and Erik’s eyes and mind lock in on him unerringly. He sees nothing more than the small holographic form of his cousin’s back, but bile still rises in his throat, and the same heart-clenched feeling he had talking to his father throws him off balance. Erik curls his hand into a fist, because it is easy, so easy to be angry at T’Challa. Wakanda’s precious golden son.

Erik grinds his teeth together and begins pacing. But his eyes never stray.

“He’s awake,” Shuri tells T’Challa, eyes flickering between Erik and the hologram. “What should I do?”

“Make sure he doesn’t go anywhere, I am on my way.” T’Challa’s voice is exactly as Erik remembers, quiet and subtly emotional. “Are you safe Shuri?”

So soft, so obviously vulnerable in his affection for his loved ones. Erik turns the weakness over in his mind like a shark scenting blood in the water.

“I’m fine,” Shuri says. “He cannot hurt me.”

“You sure about that?” Erik pipes up loudly, testing the ground, waiting. He has no plan, but…

“Don’t even think about it.” T’Challa’s voice strengthens into thunder fast enough to warrant whiplash. “I swear Erik—”

“Yeah, yeah." Erik smirks unsettlingly, even as his heart pounds in his chest.  “Come and get me kitty.”

**Author's Note:**

> i know, i know! There's barely any T'Cherik! be patient! it's coming i promise.


End file.
